


Only One Left

by chubbymutt



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Autistic Spencer Reid, Canon Autistic Character, Flashbacks, Gen, Kidnapping, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbymutt/pseuds/chubbymutt
Summary: Spencer Reid gets a call from a disposable cell phone at 4:57am on a Wednesday. He arrives at the BAU only to find everyone missing. Where has the rest of his team gone? Who was the girl on the cell phone? Who was screaming in the background? Will he be able to find his team and save them in time?Based off of the song "Experience" by Ludovico Einaudi.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Kudos: 20





	Only One Left

**Author's Note:**

> CW + TW: 
> 
> \- I use Catholic phrases, such as, "Merciful Lord", "Dear, God", and "Mother Mary up above". I did not intend to put them into the story, I just thought they would be fitting as I went along. They are simply phrases I grew up hearing, and I know that Reid isn't religious, but I felt they would fit if put into the story to add more emotion and more depth to just how horrifying it is. I am not really religious myself, but I do say these things out of habit, so I apologize for that. 
> 
> \- This gets graphic right after the sentence "He rarely sees them like this." And while it's not, like, Mortal Kombat graphic, it's still pretty graphic. It's not the entire thing, but the sentences that describe the state the team is in are very, very graphic. I get into specifics about things like methods of torture and the way they were found. I know that this is a CM fic, but reading something and imagining it is different than seeing it on a screen, so I just wanted to provide a more specific warning since "Graphic Depictions of Violence" could cover anything involving graphic violence.

It is 4:57. 4:57 in the morning. It is Wednesday. 

Spencer Reid's routine does not begin at 4:57 in the morning. Not on any day. He wakes up at 6:30 every morning, then begins his routine. Why was he waking up at 4:57 in the morning?

His phone rang again on the dark wood of his nightstand. _Oh._

"H-hello?" he spoke into the phone, voice breaking from sleep. "This is Doctor Spencer Reid. May I ask who's calling?"

A loud shriek was heard from the other side. 

"H-hello! Who is this?" he repeated, sitting ramrod straight in his bed. He opened his eyes wider and took in his surroundings.

Desk, bookshelf, carpet, closet, armoire, purple throw blanket, window above desk, doorframe, nightlight, lamp, cream-colored bedspr-

"Zugzwang," a feminine voice whispered. Spencer's blood ran cold. 

"Ex-excu-" he stuttered back, clambering out of his bed as fast as he could.

"Don't you remember, _Daddy_?" the voice responded with fake innocence. "Zug. Zwang."

"Listen," he shouted into the phone. "I have no idea who this is, or what you want from me, but this isn't funny." He ran over to his armoire and pulled out the quickest outfit he could find.

Another blood-curdling scream was heard on the other side of the line, this time coming from a voice that sounded like-

"J.J." the doctor breathed into the receiver. He currently stood in the light wooden doorframe of his bathroom, completely disheveled. He had one hand on the phone, the other on his toothbrush. 

The voice giggled. "I _knew_ you'd catch on, Daddy!" she said with a light, airy tone.

_Profile the voice, Reid. Come on._

She sounded as if she was having fun at the idea of his psychological torture. She breathed heavier through her nose at each scream J.J. let out. She sounded almost...childish, probably either sixteen or seventeen. 

"HEY!" the caller yelled, startling him back into the present. He was in his living room now. Carpet, couch, multiple bookshelves, two windows, two desks. He was slipping his shoes on and grabbing his messenger bag. He listened in on the background. It was a man yelling. It was someone he'd heard before. Someone like-

_Hotch._

Another string of giggles was released by his caller. "You have until tomorrow morning at 04:57 to find them, Daddy. However I can't promise that they'll still be alive." she mused.

"Please. I don't know who you are, but please don't hurt them," Spencer cried softly as he hailed a cab. 

"Oh," she fake gasped. "I had almost forgotten. Where are my manners? Silly me." The voice hummed softly as if in thought. "You get one hint, obviously. Cause where's the fun in me forgetting to give you a headstart."

Spencer waited for her to continue, but there was silence save for the screams of J.J. and the yelling of Hotch. 

The voice on the other side huffed. "Well? Aren't you going to ask?"

Spencer grit his teeth as he climbed out of the cab and sprinted to the front door of the building in Quantico. "What's my hint?'

The feminine voice had a cheerful tone to it. "Now that's more like it! Your hint is," she dragged out the _i_ sound, "My Mama calls me Spencie." 

_God, no._

"Okay!" she said, right as Reid's stomach dropped and bile crept up his throat, hot and thick. "That's it for today! I'll see you soon, Daddy!"

And with that, there was a click. The call had ended. And as the dial tone played, Doctor Spencer Reid was regurgitating last night's dinner into a black plastic trash barrel right outside the glass doors leading into the BAU's office. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 5:17 in the morning. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid was throwing open every single door he could find. 

To say that he was a hot mess would have been an understatement. He screamed, incoherent aside of the names of his coworkers, as he flew through the bullpen. No Emily, no Rossi, no Matt, no Tara, no Luke, he knew that J.J. was taken. 

And...

_Oh, Dear God, no. Please, oh Merciful Lord, no._

No Penelope. 

"No. _No._ NO! _NO!_ " 

They're gone. They were all gone. His team. His best friends. His _family._ All gone. 

He crumpled, sobbing into his hands, as he approached his desk. The desk with framed photos of those that take up his phone's contact list. Every single one. Each and every person he's ever worked with. 

"Doctor Reid!" 

Spencer looked up as Anderson placed a hand on his desktop and crouched down in front of him on the periwinkle-colored carpet. 

"Is there something wrong?" Anderson asked. He glanced over Spencer's disheveled appearance before looking at the phone still clutched in his hand. 

"A-Anderson!" Spencer gasped. "The-there-there's something w-wrong with Hot-Hotch a-a-a-and J.J.!" 

Anderson quirked his head, confusion seeping into the lines of his face. Spencer took that as a cue to continue.

"A-and now ev-everyone's m-mis-missing!" 

Anderson slowly reached out to grab ahold of Spencer's wrists. He turned his head at another agent who was standing by them, one Spencer didn't even notice arrive. 

"Can you please call Director Cruz?" Anderson said, making sure to keep his voice calm. "Also, could you please bring Technical Analyst Kevin Lynch up here? He will take over for this case." 

Case. He had said case. Spencer continued sobbing. 

\------------------------------------------------------

It is 5:32 in the morning. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid wanted nothing more than to fall to the floor with his hands raking across his scalp. 

"And you're absolutely sure that's what she had said?" An agent asked, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. 

They're now stood in the briefing room, sitting at the round table. There were unknown agents here. No one from the BAU, aside of Kevin, though he only worked a few cases at Garcia's side. 

Spencer turned to the board where the team's faces were put up on display. _Victims._ The board said. _They're victims_. 

He ignores the face of Catherine Adams smirking up at him from beside the blank card labelled "UNSUB". 

A short statement of, "Positive," was his only reply. He stood, arms wrapped around himself as he stared at each of their faces. He has to find them. But how? _Wait._

"Give me my cellphone, please," he says suddenly, spinning on his heel. He held out his hand to an unknown agent. He should probably learn the names of everyone standing with him, Kevin, and Anderson, but right now he can't be bothered. Anderson looked up at Spencer, confusion quickly morphing into understanding. He hands Spencer his cellphone with a quick nod. 

"Alright," Spencer says, looking out over the empty bullpen through the windows of the briefing room. He scrolls through his phone, looking for particular contacts. He selects one and then puts the phone up to his ear.

"Hi, you've reached Derek Morgan." _Hmm. That's odd._ "I'm probably at work right now, or with my family, but leave a message and I'll hit you back later. Buh-bye." The message tone beeps and Spencer hangs up the phone. He calls Savannah, who says that she hasn't seen Derek since he left for work the night before. He thanks her and hangs up. 

Next he tries Blake, to which he is once again sent to voicemail. He tries Callahan, Elle, Seaver. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, except the same "Hi," and "I'll call you back later."

It was odd, to say the least. 

"Guys," Kevin says, looking up from the computer that had been placed on the round table. "You may want to hear this." He's managed to find the original call that Reid received and pick apart the background noise. 

He plays each of the clips individually. Spencer feels his legs give out from underneath him. Kevin was looking at him with a pale expression, glasses sliding down his sweaty face and messing with his collar. 

Spencer cleared his throat, if only to keep the latest batch of bile down. "Please add Former BAU Agents Alex Blake, Elle Greenaway, Kate Callahan, Ashley Seaver and Derek Morgan to the list of victims." He looks up at their smiling faces on that screen and thinks, _Holy shit. It's just me._

\------------------------------------------------------

It is 7:05 in the morning. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid is sitting at a metal table while his leg bounces like a pogostick.

Spencer had never truly assumed he'd be back in a prison to talk to Catherine Adams again. This time there was no J.J. beside him to provide support, only a random agent there. Anderson was back at Quantico, he was surrounded by every single book and article there was to know about victimology and profiling. When Spencer had left him, he was watching his 47th lecture video about the exact type of killer that the young Adams could be from the preliminary profile. 

There was a loud buzzing sound and then a rhythmic metallic jinggling sound as Catherine was finally allowed to see him. She was in an orange jumpsuit with her hair tied back. She looked worse than the last time Spencer had seen her, however she was smirking at him. 

"Spencie!" she chuckled, breaking the silence. She cocked her head to the side, eyeing him up and down. Her chains rattled as she leaned forward to place her cuffed hands on the table, and he mirrored her body language. 

"I don't have time for this, Cat," he said in a low voice. "Where is she?" 

She stared right into his eyes before rolling her own off to the side. "Who?" 

"Your daughter. I'm not here to play games," he replied, voice clipped and monotone. She glanced back at him with a false pout before dropping her expression into a look of pure apathy. 

She leaned in even closer. "I. Don't. Know."

"What do you mean you "don't know", Catherine?" Spencer said, voice barely above a whisper as he forced himself to maintain eye contact with her. 

She laughed, a short, clipped laugh that wasn't much more of a humorous huff. "I mean the little brat hasn't come to see me since I've been incarcerated, _Doctor,_ " she said, with a sarcastic tone on his title. "Not once."

"Where-" he started, shifting a little bit as he grew uneasy and impatient. His phone rang, cutting him off. 

"This is Doctor Reid," he answered. 

"Reid, we've got her information," Kevin's voice came filtering through the speaker. "Her name is Spencer Laila Adams. She's seventeen years old, and she was staying in one location, however, about eighteen months ago, she moved to Des Moines, most likely to be with her mother. She spent about a year in Des Moines before moving to the Quantico area about two months ago. Between Des Moines and Quantico, she spent about a month in," Kevin's voice trails off for a minute. "Each of the places Penelope has tracked for each of the former BAU members." 

As Spencer takes a shuddering breath, he hears a stunned, " _Oh, Mother Mary up above,"_ in the background from another agent that he really should learn the name of. 

Catherine Adams smirks at him from across the steel table, her orange jumpsuit the only thing providing real color in the dark interrogation room.

Mother Mary up above, indeed. 

\------------------------------------------------------

It is 9:30 in the morning. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid is on his seventh cup of coffee since arriving back in Quantico. 

Books, folders, personnel files, office materials, official reports, copies of licenses, mortgage reports, bank statements, phone logs, everything having to do with the people smiling at him from the corkboard labelled "Victims" was strewn across every surface surrounding Spencer. They were running out of time. They know who she was, the area that she was in, yet they were running out of time. Why were they running out of time? It's only been four hours and thirty-three minutes since he got the phone call. That would leave them with nineteen hours and forty-five minutes left to find them. They still had no idea where the girl (he would _never_ call her by name, even as her picture smirked down at him), where _she_ was. They had no idea if she was working with anyone, though given the sheer amount of people she took, and the time it took to do so, he assumed she was. So, given that fact, they didn't know who would even _consider_ being an accomplice of hers. They didn't know where she would keep them. 

He noticed heavy footfalls approaching him. They sounded like they were forced, meant to catch his attention and pull him out of his focus. _Must be Anderson. He's the only one who would know to do that._ Sure enough, Anderson came into Spencer's line of sight a few moments later. 

"Hey," he said, voice low but not a whisper."Let's go get something to eat. I'm assuming that you didn't have breakfast this morning, so a late breakfast might be a good way to offset the coffee in your system?" He phrased it like a question, though they both know that it was more of a command. _Come get something to eat with me so this doesn't eat away at you._

"Yeah," Spencer sighed, placing his hands on the wooden table behind him. He leaned his weight into them, then back into the arches of his feet. Back and forth, back and forth, for about thirty seconds, just breathing. "Sure. Let's go." 

Spencer grabbed his messenger bag up off the floor beside one of the black chairs. He glanced back at the smiling faces of the two Adams women. He shuddered in the doorway and let the door swing closed behind him. 

\------------------------------------------------------

It is 11:00 in the morning. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid was freaking out in the passenger seat of a black, government-issued SUV. 

His sweatervest was discarded in the back seat somewhere, sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows, hair a ragged mess, hands and forearms scratched and bitten until they bled, and breathing coming out in sobs as he rocked violently in Anderson's arms. 

"Gone," Spencer whispered. "Gone. Gone. Gone." 

"It's okay, Spencer. They're not gone unless we find them dead," Anderson softly reminded him. He had kept the two of them out for about an hour and a half, much longer than Spencer thought was needed, but it had allowed the other agents, and Kevin, to try to track down the young Adams girl without Spencer worrying. He had gotten the "Found her." text about fifteen minutes ago, and now here they were. "Listen to me, Spencer. They are _not gone_. Say it with me. Not. Gone," Anderson said, hugging the young doctor as tightly as he could given his position in the passenger-side doorway. "Not gone. Just missing," he repeated. He repeated it several times, making sure to keep his breathing exaggerated and even as he did so, until, finally, Spencer had seemed to calm down. 

"Not gone. Just missing," the doctor said with a tone of finality to it. He wriggled against Anderson a little bit and the older man let go. He didn't try to look Spencer in the face, but instead stood up to grab Spencer's sweatervest and messenger bag from the back seat. 

"Thank you, Anderson," Spencer mumbled, wiping his face and looking down at his black converse. 

"It was no problem, Spencer. Now, let's go get your arms patched up, huh?" Anderson shut the door to the SUV, and let Spencer lead the way to the elevator in the parking garage. He redid his tie as Spencer shoved his sweatervest into his bag. Together, they got into the silver elevator and let the doors shut as it took them back up to the BAU.

\-------------------------------------------------------

It is 12:23 in the afternoon. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid, now with his forearms and hands wrapped up in bandages, stood watching Spencer Laila Adams through the interrogation room one-way window. 

She's cocky. One hundred percent. She's like her mother, narcissistic, uncaring, able to fake emotions within the blink of an eye. Talking to her was going to be a challenge, but he knew that it was one he'd be willing to take. 

He inhaled deeply, rolled down his sleeves, and nodded to Anderson. The lowered temperature seemed to have a slight effect on the girl, but it was quickly masked. A challenge indeed. 

"Hello, Ms. Adams. Thank you for joining us today," Spencer said as he opened the door to the room. The girl shifted in her chair, cuffs rattling, and faced him. A wide smile, genuine but...off, split her face. 

"Doctor Reid!" she chuckled. "How wonderful it is to finally meet in person!" The girl looked so much like her mother, it was scary. Her mannerisms, despite being apart for over a decade, were so shockingly similar to Catherine's. 

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Spencer supplied. Clipped. Short. Not a request. 

"Aww!" the brunette girl whined, leaning back in the steel chair as far as she could with her hands cuffed. "But that's no fun!" A pouty expression took over her face. Yep. Definitely an Adams. 

Spencer sighed as he sat down, file in hand. He looked the girl dead in the face, right in the junction of where her browbone met the bridge of her nose. He placed the file on the table, and laced his fingers together on top of it, like he'd seen Hotch do so many times before. Only he squeezed his fingers together, the pain grounding him as she attempted to bore her eyes into his own. 

"What if we played a little game, then? " Spencer asked. The teen sat up straighter. 

"A game? Oh, I love games!" she cheered, handcuffs rattling. 

"So," he said, pulling out his cellphone and opening up a timer. "Here's how the game goes. The timer will be set for five hours. I will show you a picture from this folder. You are going to tell me everything about them. What you think of them, your research on them, everything you can give me." Spencer stated.

"Not where to find them though," the teen cut in. She had her head tilted as she processed his words, looking up at him from the spot she was staring at on the table. "That would be cheating if I told you where to find them."

"Alright, then," Spencer sighed. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "If you win, the you'll be sent to a low-to-medium security facility, get visits with your mother, and possibly get a chance at parole. We'll even allow people to visit you every couple of months to study you, to learn about your technique and your strategies, if you want them to. However, if _I_ win, then you will be sent to a maximum security prison and will get either death penalty or life without parole. You will make friends since you've kidnapped and tortured _multiple_ federal agents, but I will still ensure that your life is a living hell. Do we have a deal?" 

She acted as if she was mulling over the pros and cons in her head, but they both knew what she was going to say. She finally looked back at him, her eyes like laser beams burning into his own. She smirked. 

"Deal."

\---------------------------------------------------------

It is 5:45 in the afternoon. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid is shutting the interrogation room door behind him. 

He breathed out a shuddering breath, file tucked up under his right arm. He releases the doorknob with his left hand, fingers slipping over its smooth surface for a moment. A mere moment. He grasps the file tightly in his hands, the file full of his teammates' smiling, smirking, laughing faces. Tears build up upon his waterlines, threatening to spill over and get saline all over Penelope's laughing face. How could he let this happen to them? How could he be so...? So...? _Selfish?_ He should have known about this? Why was he not picked? Not kidnapped? Not-? 

"Doctor Reid?" 

His head whipped around to see...some...agent...standing in front of him, face pulled taut with concern. 

"Yes?" he replied, looking back down at the photo of his teammates. 

"We need that file back. You're about to damage it."

That was it. 

"No!" Spencer yelled, backing up into the interrogation room door. He pulled the file to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, and himself, tightly. 

The agent rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Doctor Reid. We don't have time for this childishness. We need the file. If you're not going to hand it over, then-"

"Then what, exactly, Agent?" Anderson said loudly as he walked over to the duo. 

"H-he's damaging the case file! He's in no state to be-" the agent flailed around, grasping for words to use. He made vague gestures that could've been pointed at Spencer. If they weren't so obviously made with desperation. 

"He is doing all that he can to find his teammates, _Agent,"_ Anderson hissed at the spluttering agent. "Last time I checked, Doctor Reid here was the only one who lived with them day-in, day-out."

The agent snapped his mouth shut and spun on his heel, muttering something that didn't seem too polite.

Spencer tightened his arms around his torso, and, in turn, the file. This is all he has left of them right now? Why can't they seem to understand that? 

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 7:17 in the evening. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid is walking out of the restaurant with a box full of food. 

How could Anderson make him leave his post at a time like this? How could-?

"Spencer?" 

"Yeah?"

"Anderson sighed. "I pulled you away because I knew that's what your team would do."

 _Oh._

"I-I said that out loud?"

"Yes. But it's okay. I understand where you're coming from."

"You do?" 

"Of course. Who do you think decided to make a pit stop with Elle before taking her home?" 

Elle. How he'd love to see her again. She'd laugh with him, shove him around playfully, joke about his hair and how untamed it's gotten. 

He smiled down at his feet. "Okay, fine. Thanks for dinner, Anderson."

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 8:52 in the evening. It is Wednesday, and Spencer Reid is struggling to get to sleep.

There had been a "shift change" a little while ago, and Anderson and Kevin decided that it was best for Reid to hunker down on the couch in Rossi's office. He stole blankets and pillows from Penelope's lair, and had taken the candle from J.J.'s office. He currently wasn't needed, they had told him. He figured out the geographic profile for the most part, and he wasn't allowed to interrogate the Adams girl any longer because it had gone bad the last time he did. 

_Still not my proudest moment._

All she had done was smirk at him and cackle with glee. She chanted, "I won the game" in a sing-song voice. Over and over and over. She laughed as he struggled against the agents' hold around his arms and his torso. She rolled her eyes and gave a little wave as he screamed obscenities at her, telling her what he would do once he got his hands on her and her little crew. 

Needless to say, he was sent off to bed like a toddler. 

And now here he was. There really was nothing he could do right now. Kevin and the other analysts were trying to figure out who the girl's helpers were. They tried to figure out where they hid the team and what they would walk into once they found their location. He couldn't do anything except sit here and try to sleep. 

He felt like he was on fire. Why did he feel like he was on fire? 

"Food. Water. Bathroom. Comfortable sleepwear. St-" he cut himself off. That's why. 

He got up to his feet and looked at the door. Better lock it. Just to be safe. 

He locked the door and double-checked the blinds. Shut. Good. 

He rose up to the balls of his feet and walked around, rolling out his entire body. Shoulders to elbows to wrists to hips to knees to ankles and then back up. This wasn't preferred, especially in a situation with this much stress but it worked. His hands swatted the air with every roll of his elbows and it felt good. He shook out his fingers individually in a fluttering motion, and then stood on one foot to scrunch and flex his toes. He shifted to the other foot and did the same. He hopped lightly, shaking out his shoulders and chest as he landed. Then he breathed. He breathed away the tension and let himself sit in his own world for a moment. Quiet, calm, collected. He stretched his entire body, Rising up, up, up towards the ceiling, every muscle taught and pained. Then he let go with a heavy breath. He rolled his neck one last time, cracked his knuckles and opened his eyes. 

He walked back over to the couch and pulled the blanket over himself. It's time to get to sleep. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 1:15 in the morning. It is Thursday, and Spencer Reid is on autopilot. 

He knows that he's making plans. He knows that he's putting his vest on. He knows that he's rounding up the three S.W.A.T. teams that decided to answer the call. Only one was necessary, but the rest of them insisted. 

"We're going, and there is nothing that you can do about it," one of them had told Cruz. 

Cruz? Where had Cruz been all day? Where had-?

"Spencer!" 

Spencer spins around, legs stumbling and crossing weirdly at the calves. 

"Woah!" It's Anderson again. Why is it always Anderson, again? 

"Hey." A hand is waved in Spencer's face. "Are you okay?"

Okay? "Okay" could mean anything. He could be asking how he's doing physically or emotionally. Perhaps he's wondering why Spencer's body feels like it's switched gears and put his mind and all conscious functions on the backburner. But he doesn't have the time to pick apart the meaning right now. That'll be Alex's job when he gets her back. 

"I'm doing great," he says, forcing a smile. "Let's figure out how to get the team back, yeah?" 

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 3:05 in the morning. It is Thursday, and Spencer Reid is forcing himself to steady his breathing. 

S.W.A.T. just moved into position. It took them an unnecessarily long amount of time to find this place, and now that they've found it, no one is wasting any time with getting ready to storm the building. 

Her voice came filtering back into his mind. "However, I can't promise that they'll still be alive." 

She said it like it was an inevitable statement. Like he wouldn't find them at all. 

"READY!" A loud voice snapped him out of his thought spiral. He leaned up against the doorway looking the chief in the face. The chief nodded. 

"GO! GO! GO!"

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 4:22 in the morning. It is Thursday, and Spencer Reid is sobbing while being held back by a S.W.A.T. agent whom he doesn't know the name of. 

"Stop! Don't touch them!" he screams out, voice echoing in his ears as if it were underwater. The group of agents jumped away from where his teammates hung by the shackles around their wrists.

He gazes at each of his friends' faces, each face of a member of his _family_. He can't believe they look like this. He rarely sees them like this. 

He looks at Hotch, face beaten to a pulp and scarred as if he had been muzzled. His face twists in his mind and then suddenly he's smiling, shaking with held-back laughter. He has his fist in front of his face, trying to muffle the sounds coming out of his mouth. He pulls Spencer into his side with the other arm. 

"Hey," he says, causing Spencer to look up at him. Hotch is beaming at him, pride seeping out of every pore. "I'm proud of you, son. You know that right?"

Reid's head snaps to Emily's face. Stabbed with what appears to be a cattle prod or something, face marred with electrical burns. She's laughing, a deep, boisterous, genuine laugh. She leans over in her desk chair, burying her face in her bicep. He can hear someone cackling in the background, and he realizes too late that it's coming from him. He'd just scared Derek. Derek throws candies at her, but she keeps laughing, silent laughs that shake her frame violently. When she comes up for air, she's got tears streaming down her red face.

"Oh," she sighs, wiping her eyes. "I haven't laughed like that in a long time."

Derek's face is next. He's got slashes disfiguring his face, and his open shirt reveals ligature marks that go all across his body. He too looks like he may have been muzzled, but not before getting his teeth knocked with a fist over and over and over again. The blood dripping from his mouth becomes soda, spit out at such a high speed that Spencer can't help but squeak as it sprays him in the face. Derek is hitting the table, choking on air. 

"Damn, Pretty Boy," he says between coughs, "never expected _that_ to come out of your mouth."

Elle is next in his mind. She has dark bruising around her throat from a rope. but her Fisher King wounds are split wide open and have dark, dark blood caked within them. There's blood in her hairline and now she's pushing sweaty hair out of her face. They're sitting in the trunk of a car, watching as the ambulances take away the different victims. They're both laughing, sweaty and gross, about Gideon and about the most recent events. She's got one hand on his shoulder, braced for support as she forces out words between laughter.

"I-" she breaks out in a cackle. "I to-told you," her voice is in a mocking tone of his own, "I'm not used to b-being around g-g-guns!" Her last word breaks off with a shriek of laughter, and she's falling into him, both of them beyond hysterical at this point. 

Kate is there, a tight leather strap crushing her ribcage. She has electrical burns all over her legs and torso. Her hip is stuck out to the side, painted in blood from blood vessels that split from electricity. She's hip-checking him in the elevator, again. She's singing some song that he's never heard aside of on the subway. "What song is that?" He asks her, returning the hip-check. She turns towards him and looks up at him. She's got a mask of false and sarcastic innocence painted across her face. 

"What?" she scoffs. "You've never done the mannequin challenge, Doc?" 

He turns his head to face Luke. Oh, God, Luke. He's been shallowly unseamed, bones peeking out a little bit. His face is calm, almost like he's accepted his fate. He must have been either protecting one of the others or had been the last to die. Luke is opening his eyes at him, the sun filtering in behind him. He's smirking at him as Roxy comes bounding over to him and J.J., and he winks as he catches Spener's gaze. He's helping J.J. get over her fear. The fear that he could've prevented by-no. It's not his fault. It's time to start accepting that. He looks back down to where Luke and J.J have crouched down to Roxy's height. J.J. still looks a little but scared, but Spencer can tell that she's loosening up with each pet she gives Roxy. The dog gives his platonic soulmate a little lick to her nose. The lick is soft, calming and welcoming. J.J. starts giggling a little bit, relaxing into Luke's gentle hold on her shoulder. He starts laughing too, light and airy. Soon Spencer is joining in. 

"See?" Luke says, still chuckling a little bit. "Told you she wouldn't bite."

His head snaps to J.J. at the memory. Oh, Merciful God, what has she done to deserve this fate? She's been partially scalped, blood caked into the soft lines of her face, sealing her eyes and mouth shut. She has wounds from so many different tools. Burns, punches, slashes. It's so horrifying to look at what she's become. Suddenly she's shifting her head, and her arms are coming down to wrap around his shoulders. She's in her wedding dress, and she looks stunning. She has a glass in her hand, and they're standing at the edge of the dance floor. She pulls away from him and looks at the slice of cake in his hand. She chuckles and makes soft, not-totally-there, eye contact with him. She mimes blowing out candles and he laughs. She places both hands on his shoulders and looks at every single spot of his face. She's been doing it ever since Hankel. One time she said it's because she still can't believe that he's alive and in her arms. 

"Hey," she says suddenly, eyes glistening with warmth and so, so much _love_ for _him_. "You're so amazing. Did you know that? I love you, Spence." 

Alex's chains creak beside J.J.'s and he almost sobs at the look of her. His only mother figure in a very long time. Her hair shifts and she's no longer looking like she was chained up and dragged behind a car. She's smirking at him as he tries to pick apart a written letter. She could've done it so much faster than him, but she loves watching the gears turn in his head. She says it's like seeing her son again. 

"Ratio," she says softly, pointing to the page. "Ratio doesn't properly fit the sentence structure that he's using." 

Seaver's joints let out a shuddering creak and he feels so, so bad for her. She's been strangled and stabbed, so much rage and calculation behind each motion. He doesn't have many memories with her, since she chose to stay with Hotch or someone else most of the time, but he does remember her laughing as he explained something to her. The two of them were sitting at a table in the file room, looking at different past cases. They were trying to find the strangest signature they could, and they both would laugh every time either of them couldn't figure out what Rossi, Gideon or a local officer had written. 

"It's not _my_ fault if they all wrote like my grandmother writing to a long lost love!" She had said with a wide smile on her face as they tried to decipher a word that looked like it changed every few seconds. 

Tara hung behind Hotch, wrists so terribly bruised. She had probably hung by her wrists longer than the rest of them. It was indescribable, what happened to her. She looked like she had been chewed up in places, and in others there looked to be chain marks from where she may have been whipped with the very chains holding her up. She was sitting next to him at "Family Dinner" as Penelope had deemed it. They were out at a fast food restaurant and she was sticking fries in his hair. He had argued so many times about how unsanitary it was, and then was even more horrified when Penelope actually _ate_ one of the fries ("Maybe it'll give me some of your brains now, Professor"), but she technically wasn't hurting anyone and the laughter it spread around the table made him feel all fuzzy inside. 

"Hey, Reid?" Tara asked him, popping a fry into his bangs. "This looks good on you." 

Rossi was a sight to see. Head hung low, eye sockets bloody, and marks carved into his skin. _They're words_ , Spencer's brain supplied, a little too late. Words that couldn't even compare with the feeling of Rossi's rings pressing into the back of his neck, the buzzing sound of a razor filling up his hearing. The buzzing stopped and Spencer looked up into the mirror. Rossi smiled at him, brushing the hair off the back of Spencer's neck and powdering it up to remove the itch. Frank Sinatra was playing in the background, his voice flowing through the air like water in a brook. 

"There," Rossi said, clapping his hands together and shaking them. He spread them out so Spencer could see them in his peripherals, and then grabbed his shoulders and shook him enthusiastically. " _That_ is how you get a nice, clean, whiffle." 

Matt looked as if he was about to fall apart. Literally. He wasn't caked in blood, however the ligaments in his arms were visible and the muscle on his torso looked ready to fall off. He flashes back to Matt gesturing to different magazines and photos of vintage cars. Matt loved to hear the obscure knowledge that Spencer had about the different cars. It was fun to discuss in their free time. Currently, Matt is listening to him talk about the exact chemical combustion process the original Ford Station Wagon used. He's rocking back and forth on his feet, hands flying wildly as he explains the different processes that the fuel would go through. He cuts himself off, sheepishly looking at Matt, who just stands there with a smile. 

"I don't know how you know all of this stuff, but _man_ is it cool."

Penelope is probably the worst to look at. She's been mauled, keyboard pieces and motherboards shoved crudely into her wounds. She's wrapped up with what was once off-white elastic, and she's had her glasses impaled through her left eye. There is so much blood, but he can't look away from her. He wants to, but he can't. She's looking a him with that gleam in her eyes again. The one that says, "I got something for you and you're going to love it!!!" She holds out a bag to him. It's small, but it has glitter and oh, dear, that'll get _everywhere_ but she looks so happy. He takes it from her hand, and she practically bounces on her feet. He pulls out the tissue paper and... _Lord, thank you for giving us the gift that is Penelope Garcia_. He first pulls out a lavender and black fidget cube. He fiddles with it, testing out the different settings until getting to the switch on one side. _Oh. That's something._ He sets it aside before he gets lost in it, and then pulls out a set of rings. They remind him of the ones that Clara Hayes had all those years ago. They spin and the sound they make isn't horrible, but it feels good to spin them around and around. It gives his hands something to do. Finally he pulls out what appears to be a...? Necklace? Seeing his confusion, she points to it. 

"It's a chewy thing. You know, for, like, when you're bored and don't want to shred the inside of your cheeks. I saw it and I just _knew_ that I had to get it for you." She beamed at him, "Doc's gotta have his TARDIS, after all." 

He feels arms around him again, and he goes slack as quiet, painful sobs wrack his body. He slides to the floor and curls up, face blank and eyes unseeing. Maybe if he pretends that it's just a nightmare it will all go away. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 4:43 in the morning. It is Thursday, and Spencer Reid is wiping blood off his face.

Why is he wiping blood off of his face? He isn't bleeding?

He looks at the message painted on the wall, incomprehensible to his mind that is currently refusing to process anything. He turns, head feeling like it's filled with both static and gravel, and faces the blonde woman lying in his arms. She is dead. Jennifer is dead. She is the source of the blood. 

He gazes around at the bodies belonging to the rest of his beloved family. Derek, Alex, Luke, Matt, Hotch, Penelope, Emily, Elle, Kate, Seaver, Tara, Rossi. All dead. Blood cakes their bodies. Wounds paint them like a painted masterpiece. Stabbed, slashed, burned, electrocuted, whipped, chained up, beaten. Broken. Dead. Gone. 

The M.E. suggests that they've been dead for about three hours. That would explain the smell, wouldn't it? He never even had a chance to say goodbye. He was calling up the S.W.A.T. teams and planning an attack while they were dying. One by one. 

There was nothing he could've done to save them. They were already gone. 

He clutches Jennifer closer to his chest. He sobs into her hair. If he pretends, then he can feel her arms around him again, holding him like she did when they found him after Raphael and Charles. If he pretends, then maybe he can hear her, his older sister, calling him "Spence". 

What he'd give to hear her say it one last time. 

What he'd give to hear them all call him their favorite nicknames one last time. 

Spence. 187. Pretty Boy. Boy Genius. Kid. The Good Doctor. Einstein. The Mighty Professor. Pretty Ricky. Junior G-Man. 

He'd give anything to have Penelope hold him in a bone-crushing hug again. Anything to feel Derek's hand rifle through his hair, blunt nails scraping his scalp occasionally. To see the look that Luke would give him when he'd randomly start off on another infodump. To solve crossword puzzles with Alex again. To have Rossi joke with him about Italian leather shoes and the process of making tortellini. To have Kate hip-check him again while joking about a pop culture reference he doesn't understand. To stand beside Seaver as she worked through different parts of the profile, smiling when she started to realize how everything fit together. To have Emily spin him around in a poor attempt at ballroom dancing, her leading because he can't dance to save his life. To have Matt try to teach him how to play cricket one more time. To sit in a stake-out with Tara and listen to her crack jokes, explaining the references behind them so that he could understand them too. To sit in a hotel room with Elle again and drink the world away until it was just the two of them. Anything to have Hotch wrap him up in his arms again and let him sob. He'd relive everything he'd ever gone through just to have one more moment with all of them. One more moment. A smirk, a wave, a soft pat on the shoulder. Anything. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

It is 4:57. It is 4:57 in the morning. It is Thursday. 

Spencer Reid is the only one left. 


End file.
